The dying man reached out a heavy hand. Stretched forth into the void, the arm fell back, limp. The soul had fled. Whatever invisible thing had taken his hand, it had left the body behind. With what speed do they travel? Or, still here, do they tarry beside me now.
“Goodbye, old friend,” I say, folding his arm over his breast. I bend the other one too, laying the corpse out like a Pharoah. I stroke the aged, gray hair and press my forehead against his. “Goodbye.”
Rising, I salute him who is no longer there, and half envious, turn on my heels, marching out of the sick room. What journey is he on now? I wonder. And will I ever follow him? And just for once, I feel all that I’ve lost in my own immortal adventures. I have failed to die for centuries now, like a child splashing in the shallows.
I remember my friend when he was young, just a boy, and full of wonder. What adventures we had, but unlike me, he had grown old. He saw the world before he went, and I saw the world again. Today, how many people have died? And how many have been born? I remain, but all that I love goes on before me.
Tale Told 